What an extraordinary week it's been and thank you so much for all the kind wishes.
To add to the drama I had to do a photo shoot on Friday to go with an interview I did a couple of weeks ago for a feature on dovegreyreader scribbles to be in the Western Morning News on November 15th.
I had erroneously thought it would be just a couple of quick snaps, so an hour and a half later when I was still pouting and posing, by the shelves, near the shelves, holding books, getting books off the shelves, glasses on, glasses off, sitting at my desk facing left, facing right, typing the blog, reading books while leaning on the shelves with atmospheric back-lighting, leaning on the front gate, leaning on the field gate holding books with Tamar Valley in the background, standing in front of the house et al, I began to wish I had taken slightly more trouble than a pair of jeans and my ancient sloppy and pilled Boden jumper circa 2001.
That's me though so the South West might as well see it like it is.
Anyway, the house is full of flowers, lots of lovely things said to me and a line now drawn under the NHS bit of my life.
Well almost, except then something even more extraordinary happened.
Thirty six years notched up and not a hint of a strike ever mentioned, although I've often fancied a good one, so just look what arrived in the post two days after I retire.
I mean how unfair is that?
I think it's about pay, though I'd add in a lot more to strike about, and now I'm going to miss all the fun; picket lines, passing motorists beeping their horns twice in support, all that taser gun excitement when three the serried ranks of health visitors charge the police lines cowering huddled in testudo formation (Latin, I remember that) under their riot shields, food and clothing parcels arriving from well-wishers and roasting chestnuts over that bonfire that all strikers gather round.
I'm really really upset.
As you can see I've voted 'Yes' because the union have phoned me up personally ( yes honestly, automated but nice of them to think of me) and asked me to, so I must stand shoulder to shoulder in solidarity with the sisters fighting the cause.
So yesterday, to draw a definitive line under my career and any disappointment at missing out on a strike, Bookhound and I did what we always do, headed out across high Dartmoor. Deserted roads, perfectly lovely and gorgeously cold, pewter sky glowering down on us, a fine pub lunch at The Ring O'Bells in Chagford (highly recommended for good food, atmosphere, the day's newspapers and a lot of steaming walkers and their steaming dogs) and just drank in with awe and wonder the majesty right on our doorstep and did that count your blessings thing all the way there and all the way home.
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